Virgil nodded.

“What do they gain by that?” I said.

“Validatin’ their existence,” Virgil said.

Virgil and I made our way to the sheriff’s office. When we arrived, Book was sitting behind the desk and Clay Chastain, Sheriff Driskill’s senior deputy that had been laid up with a stomach bug, was sitting across from him.

We could see Bolger through the door separating the office from the cells. He was lying on the bunk, facing the wall.

“Howdy, Virgil, Everett,” Chastain said with his extra-long drawl. “Sorry as all hell I been under the damn weather, but I’m back. Back in the damn weather now.”

Chastain was a tough, rawboned man from Dallas, Texas. He had a scar across his face that traveled from above his eyebrow to the top of his jawbone. Chastain had an edge of intimidation to his demeanor that worked in his favor as an officer.

“Is some weather,” Virgil said. “Ain’t it?”

Chastain nodded.

“Damn sure is,” Chastain said.

“Good you’re back,” Virgil said.

“Book said you were looking for some soldiers?” Chastain said.

“We were,” Virgil said.

“Find ’em?”

“Didn’t,” Virgil said.

“Think they pulled out,” I said.

Chastain looked to Book.

“Book said something about settlers being attacked and the soldiers were on the hunt.”

“That’s the word they shared with a few people around town,” Virgil said.

Chastain looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“You mean you two weren’t notified?” Chastain said. “No telegraph?”

“Weren’t,” I said.

“That don’t make sense,” Chastain said.

“That’s how we see it, too,” I said.

Chastain nodded a little and sat back in his chair. He looked over to Bolger on the bunk in his cell.

“Know all about the scuffle,” Chastain said, tilting his head to Bolger. “Good you got him.”

I nodded.

“Glad to know this sonofabitch is locked up,” Chastain said.

“Fuck you,” Bolger said, turning from facing the wall to look at Chastain.

“I don’t care you been wounded,” Chastain said slowly and calmly. “I’ll come in there and bust your ass up so bad you’d wish you been shot dead by Hitch. Keep yer ass quiet and don’t test me.”

“Wait till my brother gets wind of this,” Bolger said.

Chastain rose out of his chair with ease and walked slowly to the door between the cell and office.

“Where is this brother of yours you keep going on about?” Chastain said kindly.

“Ha,” Bolger said. “Fixin’ to come down on all of you like a Gila monster on sun frogs.”

Chastain hooked his thumbs just on both sides of his belt buckle.

“Shut yer ass up,” Chastain said smoothly. “Not one more word.”

Bolger snarled a little and rolled back over on his side facing the wall and Chastain closed the thick wooden door between them. The wall separating the cells from the main office was thick stucco and the door was three inches of oak. When it was closed the prisoners couldn’t hear any office business and the officers didn’t have to listen to the prisoners snore or bellyache.

Virgil looked to Book.

“Any news from Driskill, from the bridge?”

Book shook his head.

“Nope,” Book said. “Nothing, Marshal.”

“Peculiar. Awful peculiar,” I said.

— 23 —

The dark clouds Virgil and I had watched coming in behind the Beauchamp Brothers Theatrical Extravaganza had settled in over Appaloosa to stay.

It had been rainy and dark for three solid days and each day grew darker, colder, and wetter than the previous. The streets were muddy from boardwalk to boardwalk and in some places they were completely covered up with water.

I stood under the awning of a drilling office near the park where the troupe was camped. I mulled over the idea of moseying over and knocking on the trailer door of Madame Séraphine Leroux’s trailer, but I talked myself out of the notion.

The troupe hadn’t had a chance to set up their tent, and if they had it was doubtful there’d be much of an audience for the show with the weather like it was. It was cold out now, and with the temperature continuing to drop, it seemed certain the rain would be turning to snow soon.

I walked back to a billiard place I like to visit now and again called The Racket on Fifth Street.

I played a few games of straight with some Irish fella that had stopped over in Appaloosa hoping the weather would clear before he continued his travels south. After I took him of a few dollars he left and I started up a series of yellow ball, red ball with the skinny old talkative court clerk named Curtis Whittlesey. The Racket was normally a quiet establishment, but because Curtis liked to talk and then talk some more, it wasn’t as pleasantly peaceful as I liked.

It was hard for Curtis to let silence linger too long, but he was a fair player, so I put up with him.

“Millicent is from Milwaukee,” Curtis said. “You ever met anyone from Milwaukee, Everett?”

Curtis didn’t give me time to answer. In fact, I don’t think he gave a shit whether I’d ever met anyone from Milwaukee or not.

“Folks from Milwaukee are different,” Curtis said. “Take Millicent, for example. You know what she does every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?”

Curtis answered for me.

“Daybreak, she walks around this town three times. All the way around Appaloosa, three times, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Says it helps her connection joints and constitution. Ha. Constitution, hell. Helps me that she’s out of the damn house and I have some morning peace and quiet. I’ll tell you something, Everett, peace and quiet is damn sure a hard commodity to come by these days. ’Course, Millicent hasn’t been out of the house since this weather set in, so it just been . . . well, it’s been downright suffocating.”

“Your shot,” I said.

“Oh,” Curtis said.

Curtis chalked his stick, leaned over the table, and lined up a shot.

“You’re yellow.”

“Oh,” Curtis said. “Yes.”

Curtis surveyed his options and lined up his shot on a yellow ball. He planted his tongue firmly between his teeth, stroked his pool cue a few strokes, took his shot and missed.

“Shit,” Curtis said. “Weather’s fault, Everett. Bad goddamn weather.”

“No doubt,” I said, as I walked around the table.

“I tell you, it is just plain goddamn bad,” Curtis said. “Millicent hasn’t been to the coops because of the damn puddle behind the house in two days. I told her when we built we should have put the foundation on higher ground but she wouldn’t listen to me. I told her all them chickens would most likely drown before this was all over.”

Curtis kept talking as I lined up a shot in the corner pocket, and made it. I put good inside low English on it and brought the cue ball back just exactly where I wanted it and lined up my next red ball.

My time at West Point was not entirely wasted on learning soldiering. I spent many of my off days shooting call shot and carom, and made myself into a pretty fair hand around the felt.

“Good shot,” Curtis said, and then went directly back into his ramble about the rain, his house, and his wife.

The door opened and deputy Skinny Jack entered, wearing his wet oilskin slicker. He removed his rain-soaked derby.

“Excuse me, Mr. Whittlesey . . . um, Deputy Marshal Hitch?” Skinny Jack said, looking to me as he pulled water from his scruffy goatee. “Western Union operator Charlie Hill brought over a wire just now for Marshal Cole.”

“’Spect he’s at the house, Skinny Jack.”

“I figured I’d find you first.”

“What is it?”

“From the way station, near the bridge camp,” Skinny Jack said, as he turned his hat nervously.

“Sheriff Driskill find Lonnie?”

Skinny Jack shook his head.

“Something bad has happened,” Skinny Jack said.